Bring me back to life
by infinitesparkle
Summary: John struggles to make sense of his feelings after the shock of Sherlock's death; Mary captures John's interest during a surprising incident at work; and Mrs Hudson deliberates over the contents of Sherlock's freezer. A story about John and Mary.
1. Waterloo bridge

Spring arrives gradually; at first the change seems almost imperceptible. The cold had been just the same, but these past few days there had been something different about the light in the afternoon; something difficult to describe. It was remarkable that John had begun to notice.

John watched the first real sun of spring shine on the buildings and on the river far down below; the light catching on every surface, on the boats and the bridges; the familiar outlines. It was more than a sense of belonging. It was like being woven in, intrinsically part of something; feeling its heartbeat is your own.

John remembered that feeling, after coming back from Afghanistan. Despite constant pain in his body, and a mind fragmented like a broken mirror, here was home; after being somewhere so inhuman, so alien. The sight of those familiar buildings in the cool air. It had been almost euphoric.

John observed that scene now; sparkling ripples flickering, mesmerising. The hum of life unfolding all around him, cars and office workers bustling past him, ceaselessly moving like bees in a hive. He tried to reach for that feeling again, the feeling of calm, of belonging, but he could not feel it. Yet standing here he maybe felt a murmur of intense sadness, somewhere deep inside him in a place he couldn't quite reach; something stirring. An emotion; maybe not the right emotion, although who could say what the right emotion was? But at least something, after the relentless numbness, after the shock of losing him.

Sherlock.

It had been weeks and weeks now, yet Sherlock's absence was still constantly tangible. The loss as inescapable and as wide as the sky, as he stood on that bridge. But John was aware that there must be intervals of time now when he didn't think about it. When he could become lost in something else for a few minutes. Then the realisation that he hadn't been thinking about it, would mean that he now _was_, and with that came the fear and shame that maybe he was starting to forget. It was enough to drive him insane, he thought.

Sometimes John worried that his memories of Sherlock were becoming distorted. Sherlock had been no saint; yet on the side of the angels. If he were here he would have no sympathy with John at all. He would most probably ridicule him and then expect him to abandon everything to follow him headlong into another case. And, of course, John would; eternally grateful for a friend that would never allow him time to indulge in self-pity.

There were moments when things came to his attention; things that hadn't before, but should have done. Like the fact that his clothes were too big for him. How could he have lost that much weight sitting around the house? One day he woke up and realised that there was food rotting in his fridge, his new fridge, not the one that used to contain human body parts. How had he not noticed that before?

There were sometimes flashes of clarity when he thought he should pull himself together; maybe do something about the stubble on his face, or try to return some of Lestrade's and Mrs Hudson's answer phone messages. But the extreme effort it would take to do that; just sending a text back was a monumental task he could not face.

Self-medicating he managed some sleep, only to be caught up in the most vivid dreams, where Sherlock would be more real than ever, and waking up he could not be immediately convinced that the dreams were not the reality and vice versa.

In between the numbness and the agony was the guilt. The sick ball of guilt that was almost tangible in his stomach. That woke him up in the early hours of the morning and wouldn't let him go back to sleep. When he spoke to his therapist; when he spoke his guilt out loud, he could see the very clear logical argument that it wasn't his fault. There wasn't anything he could have done, probably nothing anyone could have done; the logical argument that lived in a space outside of him, and that he couldn't quite grasp and reconcile with what he knew deep down.

He hadn't saved Sherlock.

Because, really and truly it had been up to him to save Sherlock. If not him then who else? Not Mycroft. Despite the fury that the thought of that man evoked in John, and for all Mycroft's part in Sherlock's downfall, he had asked John to look after Sherlock; had believed that John could do that. The responsibility had been John's.

Every now and then John believed he might be starting to heal. But he didn't know if he wanted to, because surely that would mean forgetting.

…

_BEEP _

_Hello John, it's Mrs Hudson here. I was just phoning to see how you are. It would be nice if you could come and visit. I've been sorting through things in the flat. I found some peculiar joints of meat in your freezer; mostly bones, really. I wondered if you knew what they were? I was going to make some soup with them, save wasting them, but then I thought it might be one of Sherlock's… you know one of his experiments. And then I wasn't sure if I could throw them out with the normal food-waste or not..._

...

John pressed the stop button on the answer machine. He couldn't deal with Mrs Hudson today. He had to get ready for work.

…

Another patient had just left John's room at the GP surgery. He had seen seven patients already today. But they weren't the only ones John had been observing. John had discussed with his therapist about going back to work; whether it would make him worse, whether it would make him better. As if the most important factor in all this was John, and not Sherlock at all. In the end it had been a necessity to work, in order pay the rent on his new bedsit, and here he was. He had got up, shaved, (although differently from before) got dressed, arrived somewhere on time. All good indicators, he thought.

Listening to his first patient that day, John felt paper-thin. The patient's words were so uninteresting. Fidgeting, John had had to ask her to repeat what she had just said, his concentration evaporating halfway through a sentence. Every interaction was taking too long, using up his precious time so he couldn't move on to the next meaningless interaction. Like suspense; like fear or anticipation of something that could never be realised.

Typing up the notes, John had several times just stopped, with no motivation to continue. His mind, not wandering to anything particular. Just wandering.

…

It was after patient number seven that John's adrenaline suddenly spiked.

From the direction of the waiting room a series of loud crashes and unearthly shouting made John spring to his feet, all his soldier's reactions finding him again. He tried to ignore the giddy feeling in his head, exacerbated by sleep deprivation and the sudden change of emotional pace, and he tore through to see what was happening.

In the waiting room a patient was wreaking havoc. The other patients stood cowering at the sides of the room, mothers shielding small runny-nosed children, as plastic chairs lay strewn around the waiting room. The man was wild-eyed and highly aggravated. His clothes and hair disgusting, beads of sweat standing out on his forehead, and blood from a wound on his face congealed on his collar. The man was shouting in an unnatural way, waving scabby hands, decorated with home-made tattoos, and threatening all sorts of dark violence in terms that made John's blood run cold.

An addict, in need of a fix.

It wasn't until John had fully taken in the horror of that figure that he noticed the other figure in the scene; the only other person that was not hiding at the edges of the room.

Mary.

She stood, calm and serious, facing the lunatic. A small self-assured figure; not flinching from the waving hands and flying furniture, apparently not afraid at all.

"We can't help you, unless you_ calm down_", her voice came as authoritative, stern and unperturbed as her figure. She seemed almost disdainful; she could have been speaking to a naughty child as much as to a grown man.

The man fixed bestial eyes on Mary, ranting and roaring abuse. Suddenly, from somewhere, the man produced a syringe, wielding it at Mary's face and swearing at her. Without thinking John lunged forward, grabbing the man's wrist, forcing him to drop the syringe. He twisted the arm up tight against the man's back and felled his legs to the floor, pinning him down while the man struggled pointlessly under John's grip.

"Call the police", he barked up at Mary.

"I already have, they're on their way", Mary replied coolly, smiling.

_Smiling._

Almost as if… she was enjoying this.

…

**John's blog, 7 March**

I keep thinking I see him; walking away from me in a crowd, a face in a taxi. But it can't be him. He's not here. Sometimes the world seems so big that's impossible to imagine that he can't be somewhere. That all that genius, and brilliance and arrogance; that it's all just gone. How can that be true?

When I spoke to my therapist she told me that that was normal to make-believe that it wasn't real; to think that maybe he is not dead at all; that he might just turn up somewhere when I'm least expecting it, and tell me that it had all been a mistake.

I do know, really. I know that Sherlock, my best friend, he is dead. I said it out loud to my therapist today. I know when someone is dead; you see, I checked his pulse myself. I saw the blood in his hair. The blood on the pavement; so much blood. When I close my eyes now, I can still see it.


	2. Spectre at the feast

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone for the reviews and follows. It means a lot that you liked the first chapter. Harrie (guest), I haven't been able to reply to you personally, but thanks for your review today.**

...

John watched Mary as she went up and ordered their second round of drinks at the bar, his first pint having gone down a bit too easily. She was intriguing him. What was she doing there, when she could be anywhere else; why she was there with _him_? He was hardly good company at the moment.

The pub was an old-fashioned place with heavy wooden tables and benches, cluttered brass decorations and real ale. It had that familiar smell of wood polish and beer. John had been unsure whether this was the right place to bring Mary, but looking at her now she seemed as if she would be at home anywhere. She had certainly proved today that she could handle herself in an unusual situation.

Since Sherlock's death John had been acutely aware that he was the spectre at the feast; an embarrassment to people that knew about his situation. People would try to avoid him, and when compelled to talk to him, would shift awkwardly, clearly unsure whether to mention 'it' or to ignore the elephant in the room.

It was particularly difficult facing those people who had never really believed that John and Sherlock were not a couple. He knew he was a horror to those people, representing an end-game that all couples who stay the course must eventually play out. Except he and Sherlock had not been a couple. In some ways that seemed to make it harder, John questioning the level of grief and collapse that he could allow himself for someone who was "just a friend".

His friend; but somehow his whole world.

Mary was different; unflinching in the face of his grief as she had been in the face of an intoxicated mad-man. She had never spoken down to him, always seeming completely genuine, and later one of the other staff had informed him that she had lost both her parents, not all that long ago, and actually that made sense to him. Her ability to cut through that barrier had made their few brief interactions at work stand out as the only moments in his day that weren't pure struggle.

Mary placed the drinks on the table; one gin and tonic, and one Hobgoblin.

"I hope you don't mind me saying", John glanced up at Mary again, from studying his pint, "but you surprised me today. You were really amazing. That guy...he was pretty scary, but you didn't seem to be afraid at all."

Mary smiled, she had a habit of looking at John as if she knew more about him than she was letting on. She seemed amused and pleased at his comment.

"Well, it's important to keep the upper hand; not to seem as if you're frightened." She shrugged, seemingly not wanting to say any more.

"Well, you had me convinced." John remarked "You could have been hurt. I'm glad you're OK", he added with genuine feeling, taking another drink from his pint.

"Well, I'm glad you turned up to help", Mary replied, "I liked being rescued. You're the hero today."

John shook his head and laughed to himself. "I'm not a hero. All in a day's work."

If only that were true, he thought to himself blurrily. He couldn't drink for toffee these days. The ale was going right to his head already. His depleted body mass and the meds he was taking probably contributing.

"It was… actually it was good to have the distraction." He admitted to Mary. "Sometimes the day seems… long."

Mary didn't say anything; neither encouraging him to say more, nor trying to divert him. She took a sip from her glass, watching him with those beautiful, enigmatic eyes.

"It would be nice if just for one day… if just one day passed when I didn't do anything... dysfunctional." John was aware he was talking rubbish and probably not sounding his words very clearly.

Mary laughed at this "And what sort of dysfunctional things are you doing?" she asked conspiratorially.

John looked down at the varnished wood-grain of the table. He could hear himself saying far too much, but seemed helpless to stop. "Today… today… at work… I was typing up the patient notes, and it made me...cry".

"Well, that's understandable. Some of these patient's conditions are very sad", Mary sympathised, shrugging.

"Yes, BUT..." John continued doggedly, "the patient only came in with a verruca".

Mary grinned at his admission and it made John laugh clumsily, fuelled by the alcohol.

"Well, foot conditions can sometimes be very emotive..." Mary said with mock gravity, "imagine if it had been corns, or chillblains. You'd still be there now! Seriously, John, your best friend died, and you cried. That's not really dysfunctional, is it? I would think that means you're working fairly well."

"I don't feel like I'm working fairly well."

Mary played with the ice in her drink while watching him thoughtfully, "Well, what does your therapist say?" He had let that one slip during one of their earlier conversations.

"My therapist says"… John knew he was really slurring his words now, speaking slowly and deliberately "that it is a _process_. But…"

He paused, screwing up his face to try to think what he wanted to say "… how do I know if it _is_ a process? How do I know if I am_ processing_, or if I am _wallowing_? And if I stop processing… if I continue to the end of the process, and complete the process… what does that mean? That none of it matters. That he… he didn't matter?"

He paused looking up at Mary helplessly. There was a part of him that knew already that he was making a total arse of himself; that he was probably screwing up the one glimpse of light in the whole endless bewildering tunnel.

"I'm sorry", he said, "Sorry…sorry."

Mary leaned forward and put her hand over John's, where it was resting on the table, John was surprised to feel his body react as her fingers made gentle contact with the spaces in between his knuckles.

"Do you fancy a walk? It's a nice evening out there. We could get some fish and chips; I know a good place."

John shook his head, suddenly melancholy and exhausted. "No thanks. I'm gonna go home now. Thanks… thanks for the drink."

He pulled his hand away and gave her a small smile before making his way unsteadily down the steps out of the pub. Before he'd even got home the crying started again.

…

The crying had begun shortly after that day, on the bridge, when the sun had come out. It had been such a relief, that day, to _feel_ something, but the sun seemed to have melted some kind of flood-gate, and now, day after day the sadness seemed to overtake him, with no abatement.

He wasn't even sure if it _was_ crying sometimes. The tears would be falling even while he was doing something else, watching television, washing his clothes. It was so _unfitting_ for someone who had undergone military training, a process basically designed to override one's normal human reactions, and John could barely recognise himself.

At around the same time, John had realised he was suddenly ravenous, and so exhausted he could literally fall asleep with his head on the desk; after drifting through endless days and nights with no need for sleep or food; no need for anything at all.

It was as if his body was staging an involuntary fight-back against the indifference in his mind; normal functions resuming; life pushing through relentlessly, whether he willed it to or not. Like flowers growing through the cracked paving slabs of a war-torn abandoned village, or like flowers growing on a battlefield, oblivious to anything except the movement of the earth and the compelling pull of the sun, urging life to keep going, regardless of the surrounding destruction.

The irony was that John had always preferred some routine; seeing food as necessary fuel, and regular sleep as important; although Afghanistan had hampered that somewhat. Sherlock's influence had disrupted what would have been an otherwise orderly schedule, John being drawn in to the other's obsessional habits with no hope of being able to temper them. Now, in death, as in life, Sherlock was still confounding John into chaos and disarray.

…

_BEEP_

_Hello John, Mrs Hudson again. Just to let you know that in the end I gave the bones to Mrs Turner next door for her dogs. So not to worry about that. It seemed a shame to let them go to waste. But now I've found something else. It's just… I'm not sure what it is and I think it might be something __illegal__. If you've got time maybe you could come and visit, and have a look at it. I didn't want to throw it away in the normal rubbish; what if the police look through my bins? They can do that, you know. Imagine if they raided the house, what would the neighbours say?… and me in my nightie…_

John pressed the stop button on the answer machine. He couldn't deal with Mrs Hudson today.

…

John had arrived, in a slightly more sober state, at his rented bedsit; the one with unfamiliar furniture and ugly curtains; his den of mourning and self-loathing. There was a three-quarters empty Jack Daniels bottle on a small table in the corner. It was tempting to continue drinking, now he had started; to let the warmth and comfort mask some of the sadness, but John knew he had work in the morning, and he had to admit that the work was keeping him running; some semblance of normality.

Instead he quickly updated his blog; he wasn't actually uploading the entries any more, just using it to offload thoughts so hideous he would never be able to say them out loud, even to his therapist. Then he took his usual meds and, done with crying for the day, crashed miserably, and somewhat gratefully, into bed, still in his shirt and underwear.

…

**John's blog 14 April**

Sometimes I think that if I go back to Baker Street, he will still be there. I picture him in my head, and it seems so real, and then it strikes me that I will never see him again...it feels like more than I can bear.

Sometimes, when I come back home after work, my thoughts are so frightening; the thought of being alone, of being invisible. I feel like I could just disappear and no-one would ever know.

Before Afghanistan, I'd had periods in my life when I'd hit rock-bottom, but those times I'd always felt like there _was _a bottom; there was limit to how low I could feel, and then I would get better.

After Afghanistan, it wasn't like that. I was in freefall. I didn't know _where_ I would land, _if_ I would land. But I survived, and it was because of him that I did.

But now he's gone, and I'm in freefall again. I'm afraid. I literally don't know who am I or what the point of me is. He gave me a purpose, but now I'm just a ghost. An empty space. A shadow.

I miss him so much. Right now I would do anything for him to turn up and tell me that we've got another case. I would do _anything_. I would give away _any_ of my possessions. I would jump off that building myself.


	3. Appledore station

**A/N: Hello again. Thanks again for the follows and reviews. I'm glad you're still with me! I just wanted to mention at the outset of this chapter that I know nothing about car mechanics:)**

...

John scowled as his phone buzzed, and then felt himself relax again when he saw who the message was from.

Are you busy? MM

Mary seemed to have forgiven his woeful ramblings at the pub that night. They'd revisited the pub several times since then, and John had finally taken Mary up on her offer of fish and chips.

Ironing shirts for work… so no. JW

Please would you come and collect me? MM

Where from? JW

Um… you don't have to do this but… somewhere in rural Kent. MM

? JW

I got stuck. I can give you the GPS? MM

Bewildered and concerned, John dialled her mobile, "Where are you? Are you OK?" He was relieved to hear her laughing, despite the bad signal.

"Um, I took a train out to the countryside… I just needed to get out of London for a bit. And now there are no trains back, because I'm in the middle of nowhere." She paused.

"Look, you don't have to do this… at all. But if you fancied a drive…? It's just, I'm supposed to be on early tomorrow."

John shook his head at the phone, bemused. Was he up for a drive? "OK, then. Fine. Fine, send me the GPS." John didn't really understand, but he climbed into his car anyway.

"Bloody hell", he muttered to himself, "As bad as Sherlock. What am I, a taxi now?"

…

John couldn't help smiling to himself as he shifted the car into top gear, watching the buildings depleting as he left London behind. The cold rain fell on the windscreen, and John felt a heady sense of liberation, as he realised for the first time that the knot in his stomach had temporarily dissipated. He watched the lights of the other cars, blurred and blinking in the wet.

It had been so long since he had done _anything; _anything that wasn't routine or necessary, because everything had seemed so much of a chore. Weirdly he felt rebellious, watching the cars on the other side of the central reservation as everyone returned to London for their working weeks, and him going the wrong way, on a whim, on an errand he didn't understand.

The roads became more and more remote as he followed the directions on his SatNav. He drove through a few small villages and past country pubs and petrol stations; the landscape flat, stretching endlessly to the horizon, with nothing but a few sparse trees, and even those far away towards the sky-line. The surrounding fields were cut through with waterways that apparently had done nothing to shape the landscape; nothing to detract from the vast openness and space. He wasn't far from the coast now. He almost felt like he was going to drive off the edge of the world.

Suddenly the SatNav told him he was approaching a level-crossing, and he pulled in to a single-track old-fashioned train station. Mary was sitting in the waiting room, alone in the semi-darkness. There was no-one else around.

John stood in the doorway, just out of the rain, facing her, "Hello", he said casually.

"Hello", Mary turned wary eyes back up at him, trying to assess him.

"Mary… what are we doing here?" John asked slowly.

Mary looked down at her feet, her mood impossible to assess.

"Please will you take me home? I'll tell you in the car".

John sighed softly, car keys in his hand.

"Fine".

…

"I'm waiting", John's voice came crossly, as he stared straight ahead trying to concentrate on retracing his route back along the uneven road, through the darkness and streams of raindrops.

"I like it when you're stern", Mary replied teasingly.

"Shut up", John was properly smiling now, enjoying the company.

"I just needed… to escape for a while," Mary began hesitantly. "I needed to get out of London. Sometimes, getting up, going to work… it's not enough. Sometimes I miss people that I've left behind _so much _that it's like… it's like I _no longer know who I am. _I don't really expect you to know what I mean by that."

"No, that's… it makes sense", John replied. He was aware of a shadow of hopelessness on Mary's face, although, busy with driving, he couldn't really tell what it might mean. "So you…just got on a train, to do what? To find yourself?"

"Yeah, something like that." Mary sat staring at the raindrops playing on the side window.

"Do you not have friends you could visit?"

"Not really, not many."

John didn't really believe her. How could someone like Mary have no friends?

"I'm sorry, OK?" Mary continued, sounding cross now. "Sorry to drag you out all the way here. I just didn't think… the last train out of here is at 4.30, I mean, what sort of bloody system is that? Don't people here ever go anywhere?"

John continued driving, amused at her tirade.

"Could you not have got a _real_ taxi?" asked John, meaningfully.

"I don't think they even have them here."

They both laughed at that, John unsure which of the two of them was more unhinged, and then abruptly the warning lights lit up on the dash-board, and the car shuddered to a halt.

John had expertly managed to ditch the car in a grass bank so it was mostly out of the road. He got out of the car shivering. The temperature had dropped now, and he hadn't even thought to bring a coat. John caught a strong smell of petrol as he lifted the bonnet of the car, rain running through his hair and down his collar. A brief look didn't reveal anything, and then he was surprised to find Mary next to him.

"Get back in the car. You'll be soaked", he ordered.

Mary ignored him and crouched down to peer under the car, using her phone to see. She went around to the front and finally found what she was looking for. She pulled a tube out, underneath which a pool of petrol was forming.

"It's the fuel hose. It's fine, I can…" with some effort she reconnected the fuel hose and screwed it back on tightly. "It'll be fine, just take it easy over the bumps. Bloody ridiculous country roads." She added in an undertone.

Mary climbed back into the car, dripping wet and smelling strongly of petrol. John reached back for his medical supply kit and took out some wipes and gave them to Mary for her to clean her hands, his hands brushing against hers. Her make-up was smudged and her top was clinging to her from the rain. John had always liked the way she dressed, elegant, but just that bit quirky.

The lights inside the car highlighted her cheekbones, and caught in her eyes and that smile that seemed to hold a million secrets. Suddenly the lights inside the car faded to black, timing them out as they had been sitting there for too long. John leaned forward tentatively, his lips brushing hers as she responded. There was a moment of pure pleasure as John's broken emotions seemed to magically awaken for a split second, like receiving a drop of some magic elixir, and just as quickly the feeling faded and the darkness and tightness in John's stomach returned.

He quickly turned and started the car, and after that the two didn't speak again all the way back to London, Mary apparently asleep next to him.

…

_BEEP_

_Hello John, Mrs Hudson again. I do wish you'd visit. I think we've got mice in the flat, what with no-one living there now. I had to move the furniture and it's not very easy, with my hip… I had to move Sherlock's chair because…_

John slammed the answer machine with his fist." Leave his bloody chair ALONE", he roared; he was on his own in the flat, after having dropped Mary home. Somehow the whole escapade with Mary had made him furious, confused and lost.

Suddenly John was crippled by an overwhelming desire for everything to be back the way it had been; to be back in 221B, with his friend, sitting in their respective chairs, mulling over the latest case. The longing was so great that it was as if he could no longer contain the desire in his own body. John's vision blurred to stars and redness and he almost vomited right there. Furiously he grabbed at the wall recovering his balance, then turned, kicking over the cheap, nasty chairs in his flat, overturning the table and hearing a satisfying snap as it made contact with the wall. As he watched his furniture break he heard his own voice screaming.

"For f***'s SAKE Sherlock. You f***ing IDIOT. How can you have DONE THIS? How can you have DONE THIS TO ME? Why the F*** didn't you talk to me? I could have HELPED you. I'm your FRIEND, you arrogant cock. Did that mean NOTHING to you at all? Why didn't you TALK TO ME? That's what friends do. But you just didn't bloody CARE ENOUGH ABOUT ME to do that."

John buried his head in the sofa, not shouting any more, not crying, overwhelmed; shaking with the anger that seemed to have come from nowhere; out of options, like a chained up tiger with nowhere to go. He couldn't bear to be on his own anymore. The thought of spending the next eight hours alone in that vile flat was more than he could take. He thought of Mary, of Lestrade, Mrs Hudson; and then he felt the desire to vomit returning; and then he thought of the unopened bottle of Jack Daniels he still had, and that seemed like the only viable option.

…

**John's blog 21 May**

I wonder if he ever changed his mind?

How long did it take him to reach the ground? It seemed like forever. Was there a moment when he wanted to take it all back?

When I was in Afghanistan, I had a near-death experience; more than one, actually. They say your whole life flashes before your eyes. But it wasn't like that for me. It was just wild frantic regret about what was happening; and then overwhelming fear of imminent pain. As if your human side leaves you and it's just the terrified animal in you, looking for a way to escape.

I wish he hadn't had to feel that. I wish I could have taken that from him. But I didn't.

I desperately wish I'd stayed with him that day; that I'd realised that that phone call about Mrs Hudson was a fake; that I'd rung Mrs Hudson to check, instead of rushing off, like an idiot. He wasn't himself that day. I know him better than anyone, I should have seen it. It's so obvious now.

I tried to help. I asked him how I could help, but he didn't want me. Maybe I could have tried harder. I just stood by and let it happen; Mycroft, Donovan, Lestrade's boss, that bloody journalist, _Moriarty_; I stood by and watched while they burnt him to a crisp.


	4. Not alone

John awoke to repeated loud banging on the door.

His felt his heart racing in overdrive, even while he struggled to regain consciousness. He was back in Afghanistan, someone requiring urgent medical attention. Then he realised that it was Sherlock waking him up because he needed backup on some idiotic errand. Finally, when he opened his eyes and saw where he was, he knew it must be Mary.

He couldn't face Mary.

He tried to sit up, but it hurt to move. On gaining an upright position his head throbbed with pain and his stomach lurched. He had pins and needles in one arm where he'd been lying on it, and he was still fully dressed in yesterday's clothes.

The barrage of sound continued, and in the end he struggled to his feet and opened the door a crack, just to stop the noise from reverberating through his head.

Inspector Lestrade stood in the doorway. Even with his hangover John could see that Lestrade appeared pale and drawn. He had dark circles under his eyes and he smelt strongly of cigarettes.

John hadn't seen much of Lestrade since the funeral. The last time they'd really spoken was at Baker Street when he'd taken Sherlock away in handcuffs and then threatened to do the same to John. Not that that had really worked out for Lestrade.

"You look bloody awful", Lestrade informed him.

"Thanks… do you want to ...come in?"

Lestrade slowly walked past John into the bedsit, taking everything in. It did, truth be told, look a complete mess. The chairs were still sideways on the floor, the table also, with one leg no longer at right angles. The empty JD bottles were evident next to the sofa. Having lived with Sherlock, John was fairly accustomed to things no longer having their military neatness and cleanliness, but it wasn't until now that John realised how much he had let things in the flat slide. It was disgusting, there was no two ways about it.

Lestrade went over to the kitchen area and began to search for mugs and coffee amongst the take-away debris and unwashed plates. It wasn't difficult, the kitchen being so sparsely equipped. He filled the kettle at the sink.

"You didn't turn up for work. People were worried."

John had flopped painfully back down on the sofa. His head hurt and he wanted to make as little movement as possible.

"I was having a sick day."

"Yeah, I can see that", Lestrade answered, looking at the state of him, and the empty bottles.

"How have you been?" Lestrade continued.

John just shrugged. He'd thought he was improving, but apparently he was still in freefall.

Lestrade poured the water into the mugs and then looked in the fridge for milk, grimacing at the date on the carton. Finally he handed John a black coffee. John had to sit up in order to hold it, and his head swam as he did so.

"I don't want to talk about… him", John said quickly.

Lestrade's eyes looked weary; a man who had seen far too much.

"Neither do I", he growled softly.

There was a long pause while John took a grateful sip of the coffee and wondered what kind of painkillers he had lying around.

"How's work?" John finally asked, just to fill the silence.

"Difficult", Lestrade replied with feeling.

John didn't doubt it. The fall-out for Lestrade, at work, after Sherlock's arrest and disgrace must have been hell. Lestrade was probably lucky to still have a job. And goodness knows how he was coping with solving cases alone now.

The two sat in silence. It was like looking in a mirror; John desperately wishing he could think of something to say to Lestrade to indicate his solidarity, his forgiveness, his friendship and empathy; but somehow he couldn't think of a single thing.

Apparently without Sherlock there was nothing really to talk about.

Lestrade finished his coffee in silence, looking out of the window, and then stood up to see himself out.

"Greg", John called after him.

Lestrade turned around, his hand on the door.

"Thanks for coming over".

He meant it. Freefall was frightening.

…

It was a full two days before John had a chance to speak to Mary at work again, after their late night road-trip. Although that wasn't strictly true, as John knew he was doing his best to avoid her.

At the end of the second day John was finishing typing up some notes at his desk when Mary came in to make an inventory of the medical supplies. The door swung closed behind her leaving the two of them alone, with the silence stagnating between them.

Mary rummaged through the boxes and syringes, without a word, while John tried to think about what he was meant to be typing. He sighed, frustrated as the thoughts would not come, completely distracted by her presence, aware of the scent of her perfume.

"We need to talk..." Mary said. He looked up, and she was no longer counting medicines, but watching him "...about what happened", Mary continued.

John studied her face before replying slowly, "OK. You… kissed me. Why?"

Mary shrugged, bewildered at the question. "It was a kiss. How many reasons could there be? Anyway, you need to rephrase that. I didn't kiss you. We kissed each other."

"What do you want", John replied impatiently, "What do you see happening? There are only two ways this can go. Either it doesn't work out, and someone gets hurt..." John knew that any more hurt would actually kill him. "...or it does work out and…"

John wasn't sure how to finish his argument.

"...it feels like he didn't matter", Mary said, almost whispering.

John observed Mary with cold fury. How dare she? How _dare_ she even begin to try to guess what he was thinking. He spoke angrily now.

"Mary, it was a mistake. A stupid mistake. I was lonely. You're… well you're gorgeous. But I was messing you around. This can't happen. I'm not… I'm just not ready… I might not _ever_ be ready. I'm sorry. Sorry."

Mary put her clipboard down and walked over to where John was sitting. She picked up his hand and held it between the two of hers. He wanted to pull it away, but something made him stop.

"John Watson", Mary began gently, "You are the most extraordinary man I have ever met. As well as being _very_ good at diagnosing foot ailments, and rugby-tackling patients, you are also extremely kind, selfless, evidently very loyal and actually very handsome. I've spoken to the staff here and no-one's got a bad word to say about you. Everyone was desperate to have you back at work. Maybe handing out prescriptions isn't enough for you long-term, but I have no doubt at all that you will find yourself again.

"You haven't just lost your best friend; you've been alienated from your friends, your home, and the only occupation you really loved. You seem to think that you're falling apart, but when I look at you I don't see someone who is falling apart. I see someone who is incredibly strong, and who is coping extremely well in the face of immense difficulty.

"If you're not ready for a relationship, then that's fine, of course that's fine. But just so you know, I'm here if you need me, and I'm more than willing to wait for as long as it takes."

John watched her, overwhelmed and wavering. He had no idea what to say. Finally his voice came out in a whisper, "Mary please… please, just leave me alone." He pulled his hand away bitterly.

He was sorry the minute she'd left the room, because he suddenly realised that what she'd done was amazing.

It felt to him as if she had deduced every thought in his mind.

...

After work John made a call to his therapist and then went for a long walk. The thick fog that had covered London that morning had burned through, leaving the sun warm enough that John didn't need his coat.

The first place John walked to was Baker Street. He stood outside the shiny black door and hovered, like an uncertain client. It had been much easier to pretend that his former home did not exist, but today he needed to see; to check that it was still here, and unsurprisingly it was. The sight evoked so much sadness and emptiness and longing, and a kind of outrage that it was all just so _unfair_; the feelings confused and jammed so tightly in his head that there was no room for tears. John deliberated about whether to go in and see Mrs Hudson, but he couldn't do it, and walked away, his face distorted with emotion.

The second place John walked to was the cemetery, where Sherlock's gravestone stood dark against the green verdant grass and delicate pink-flowering weeds. He stood there for a long time, in the cool and quiet, with the smell of cut grass and pine, the birdsong and the faraway hum of traffic. It felt as if time itself was holding its breath, and finally the tears came, warm and welcome.

...

_BEEP_

_Hello John, it's Mrs Hudson here again. I hope you're well. It's been a long time since I saw you. Your work phoned me the other day. They said you hadn't gone in. I do hope you're alright. I just wanted to say that I'm still no further with the mouse problem. I thought the best thing to do would be to get a cat, but the cat wasn't interested in the mice. She just sat washing while the mice ran past her feet. But when she saw Mrs Turner's dogs it was a different matter; she was after those dogs like a shot. Mrs Turner's furious with me now, because the blessed dogs never stop barking and..._

John pressed the stop button on the answer machine. He couldn't deal with Mrs Hudson today.

...

**John's blog 5 June**

He lied to me.

When he was on that roof-top he had one last chance to say anything he wanted, and he told me he was a fraud. Why would he say that? What was he trying to _do_? I wish I could understand.

Most people weren't aware of how _human_ he really was. Certainly he didn't always operate like other people, and the fact that I existed for anything other than to help him with cases sometimes didn't seem to occur to him. So the question of how he would feel about what I did in his absence... well, it's kind of a non-question.

But when he was on that roof-top, he wasn't thinking about himself. I think he was trying to cut me loose; to release me; to allow me to carry on without him. Did he really think that would work? As if that one phone call could undo all those years of friendship.

I wish he was here so I could make him understand that I never, for a moment, doubted him. Never. I could never stop believing in him. I could _never_ stop believing in Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
